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قراءة كتاب Poems containing The Restropect, Odes, Elegies, Sonnets, &c.
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اللغة: English
Poems containing The Restropect, Odes, Elegies, Sonnets, &c.
الصفحة رقم: 4
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On as he goes the vision'd prospect flies,
And, grasping still at bliss, unblest at last he dies.
Yet is remembrance sweet; though well I know
The days of childhood are but days of woe;
Some rude restraint, some petty tyrant sours
The tranquil calm of childhood's easy hours;
Some trifling fault committed calls the tear,
Some trifling task neglected prompts to fear:
Yet is it sweet to call to mind the hour,
Ere searching reason gain'd her saddening power;
Ere future prospects could the soul distress,
When even ignorance was happiness.
The days of childhood are but days of woe;
Some rude restraint, some petty tyrant sours
The tranquil calm of childhood's easy hours;
Some trifling fault committed calls the tear,
Some trifling task neglected prompts to fear:
Yet is it sweet to call to mind the hour,
Ere searching reason gain'd her saddening power;
Ere future prospects could the soul distress,
When even ignorance was happiness.
Such was my state in those remember'd years,
When one small acre bounded all my fears:
And even now with pleasure I recall
The tapestry'd school, the bright-brown boarded hall;
The murmuring brook, that every morning saw
The due observance of the cleanly law;
The walnuts, where, when favour would allow,
Full oft I wont to search each well-stript bough;
The crab-tree, whence we hid the secret hoard,
With roasted crabs to deck the wintry board.
When one small acre bounded all my fears:
And even now with pleasure I recall
The tapestry'd school, the bright-brown boarded hall;
The murmuring brook, that every morning saw
The due observance of the cleanly law;
The walnuts, where, when favour would allow,
Full oft I wont to search each well-stript bough;
The crab-tree, whence we hid the secret hoard,
With roasted crabs to deck the wintry board.
These trifling pastimes then my soul possest,
These trifling objects still remain imprest:
So when, with unskill'd hand, the rustic hind
Carves the rude legend on the growing rind,
In after years the peasant lives to see
The expanded legend grow as grows the tree.
Though every winter's desolating sway
Shake the hoarse grove, and sweep the leaves away;
Deep in its trunk the legend still will last,
Defy the storm, and brave the wintry blast.
These trifling objects still remain imprest:
So when, with unskill'd hand, the rustic hind
Carves the rude legend on the growing rind,
In after years the peasant lives to see
The expanded legend grow as grows the tree.
Though every winter's desolating sway
Shake the hoarse grove, and sweep the leaves away;
Deep in its trunk the legend still will last,
Defy the storm, and brave the wintry blast.
Whilst letter'd travellers delight to roam
The time-torn temple and demolish'd dome;
Stray with the Arab o'er the wreck of time,
Where erst Palmyra's towers arose sublime;
Or mark the lazy Turk's lethargic pride,
And Grecian slavery on Ilyssus' side:
Oh! be it mine to flee from empire's strife,
And mark the changes of domestic life;
See the fall'n scenes where once I bore my part,
Where every change of fortune strikes the heart;
As when the merry bells' responsive sound
Proclaim the news of victory around;
When eager patriots fly the news to spread
Of glorious conquest, and of thousands dead;
All feel the mighty glow of victor joy,
Exult in blood, and triumph to destroy:
But if extended on the gory plain,
And, snatch'd in conquest, some lov'd friend be slain,
Affection's tears will dim the sorrowing eye,
And suffering nature grieve that one should die.
The time-torn temple and demolish'd dome;
Stray with the Arab o'er the wreck of time,
Where erst Palmyra's towers arose sublime;
Or mark the lazy Turk's lethargic pride,
And Grecian slavery on Ilyssus' side:
Oh! be it mine to flee from empire's strife,
And mark the changes of domestic life;
See the fall'n scenes where once I bore my part,
Where every change of fortune strikes the heart;
As when the merry bells' responsive sound
Proclaim the news of victory around;
When eager patriots fly the news to spread
Of glorious conquest, and of thousands dead;
All feel the mighty glow of victor joy,
Exult in blood, and triumph to destroy:
But if extended on the gory plain,
And, snatch'd in conquest, some lov'd friend be slain,
Affection's tears will dim the sorrowing eye,
And suffering nature grieve that one should die.
Oft have my footsteps roam'd the sacred spot,
Where heroes, kings, and minstrels, sleep forgot;
Oft traced the mouldering castle's ivy'd wall,
Or ruin'd convent tottering to its fall;
Whilst sad reflection lov'd the solemn gloom,
Paus'd o'er the pile, and ponder'd on the tomb:
Yet never had my bosom felt such pain
As, Alston, when I saw thy scenes again!
For every long-lost pleasure rush'd to view,
For every long-past sorrow rose anew;
Where whilome all were friends, I stood alone,
Unknowing all I saw, of all I saw unknown.
Where heroes, kings, and minstrels, sleep forgot;
Oft traced the mouldering castle's ivy'd wall,
Or ruin'd convent tottering to its fall;
Whilst sad reflection lov'd the solemn gloom,
Paus'd o'er the pile, and ponder'd on the tomb:
Yet never had my bosom felt such pain
As, Alston, when I saw thy scenes again!
For every long-lost pleasure rush'd to view,
For every long-past sorrow rose anew;
Where whilome all were friends, I stood alone,
Unknowing all I saw, of all I saw unknown.
Alston! no pilgrim ever crept around
With more emotion Sion's sacred ground,
Than fill'd my heart as slow I saunter'd o'er
Those fields my infant steps had trod of yore;
Where I had loiter'd out the summer hour,
Chas'd the gay butterfly, and cull'd the flower;
Sought the swift arrow's erring course to trace,
Or with mine equals vied amid the chace.
With more emotion Sion's sacred ground,
Than fill'd my heart as slow I saunter'd o'er
Those fields my infant steps had trod of yore;
Where I had loiter'd out the summer hour,
Chas'd the gay butterfly, and cull'd the flower;
Sought the swift arrow's erring course to trace,
Or with mine equals vied amid the chace.
Cold was the morn, and bleak the wintry blast
Howl'd o'er the meadow, when I view'd thee last;
My bosom bounded, as I wander'd round
Each well-known field, each long-remember'd ground.
I saw the church where I had slept away
The tedious service of the summer-day;
Or, listening sad to all the preacher told,
In winter wak'd, and shiver'd with the cold;
And, as I pass'd along the well-trod way,
Where whilome two by two we walk'd to pray,
I saw the garden ground as usual rail'd,
A fence, to fetch my ball, I oft had scal'd:
Oh! it recall'd a thousand scenes to view,
A thousand joys to which I long had bid adieu.
Howl'd o'er the meadow, when I view'd thee last;
My bosom bounded, as I wander'd round
Each well-known field, each long-remember'd ground.
I saw the church where I had slept away
The tedious service of the summer-day;
Or, listening sad to all the preacher told,
In winter wak'd, and shiver'd with the cold;
And, as I pass'd along the well-trod way,
Where whilome two by two we walk'd to pray,
I saw the garden ground as usual rail'd,
A fence, to fetch my ball, I oft had scal'd:
Oh! it recall'd a thousand scenes to view,
A thousand joys to which I long had bid adieu.
Silent and sad the scene: I heard no more
Mirth's honest cry, and childhood's cheerful roar,
No longer echo'd round the shout of glee—
It seem'd as tho' the world were chang'd, like me!
There, where my little hands were wont to rear
With pride the earliest sallad of the year;
Where never idle weed to grow was seen,
There the rank nettle rear'd its head obscene.
I too have felt the hand of fate severe—
In those calm days I never knew to fear;
No future views alarm'd my gloomy breast,
No anxious pangs my sickening soul possest;
No grief consum'd me, for I did not know
Increase of reason was increase of woe.
Mirth's honest cry, and childhood's cheerful roar,
No longer echo'd round the shout of glee—
It seem'd as tho' the world were chang'd, like me!
There, where my little hands were wont to rear
With pride the earliest sallad of the year;
Where never idle weed to grow was seen,
There the rank nettle rear'd its head obscene.
I too have felt the hand of fate severe—
In those calm days I never knew to fear;
No future views alarm'd my gloomy breast,
No anxious pangs my sickening soul possest;
No grief consum'd me, for I did not know
Increase of reason was increase of woe.
Silent and sad awhile I paus'd, to gaze
On the fall'n dwelling of my earlier days;
Long dwelt the eye on each remember'd spot,
Each long-left scene, long left, but not forgot:
On the fall'n dwelling of my earlier days;
Long dwelt the eye on each remember'd spot,
Each long-left scene, long left, but not forgot: